


Levels

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ficlet, Injury, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-05-29 14:02:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15074711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Thorin discovers more distance between himself and his crush.





	Levels

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NordicFlamingo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NordicFlamingo/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for nordicflamingo, who donated to the WWF and a dog shelter and asked for “A Bofurshield AU where Erebor never fell. Prince Thorin always knew he was privileged, but he never truly realized what that word meant until one day when the lovely miner that Thorin secretly hopes to marry some day is in a mining accident, and his (Bofur's) family cannot afford a doctor. A happy ending, please!” a la [karma commissions](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/167176922380/karma-commissions).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

There are no windows in the mines, and the vents are far off and long enough that they don’t show any light, just let in twisted pipes of air. Thorin makes his way by firelight—all the torches are lit around the clock—the mines of Erebor never sleep. By now, many of the workers that he passes look familiar, and they no longer scurry to bow when he strolls by. They do nod with reverence, and Thorin nods back in acknowledgement. He passes the foreman, busy in discussion with two dirtied workers, and continues along the winding path that lines the giant fissure. Miners in full harnesses are draped all down the sides, heavy pickaxes and smaller tools busy at every junction. The thick air is full of the loud clashing noises, but it’s the sort of rugged environment that would make any dwarf feel _alive_. 

Thorin doesn’t visit for the culture. He walks through the entire enclosure, barreling along its enormity as his eyes scan every station. He knows the tunnels well, and he knows which ones are most likely to hold what he’s looking for. By the time he’s made a full circle, coming up again near the entrance along the cavern’s other side, he’s prickling with annoyance. At least the foreman’s now alone, bent over a workbench covered in schematics. Thorin storms right over.

“Where is Bofur working today?”

The foreman looks up, and Thorin stares back, face determined and closed—guarding against the foreman asking _why_ the prince needs to know about that one worker in particular. At first, the foreman just blinks, but then he stirs and recounts, “Oh, he was one of the ones injured in the accident.”

Instantly, Thorin’s chest tightens. The annoyance dissipates swiftly into concern, and a new touch of anger, because why wasn’t he notified? He barks more gruffly than he means to, “I didn’t hear about any accident.”

The foreman waves his hand like it’s nothing. “No, no, it wasn’t anything to bother the crown about—just a few injuries and one fatality; most should be back to work within the month, and we have enough to fill the gaps in the meantime, Your Highness.” As though that’s it, the foreman returns his gaze to his parchment. Thorin’s left with a rock in his stomach. The very notion that several injuries and a death would be below the crown’s notice is painful, and it’s one he’d never thought of before. He feels... _spoiled._ And he doesn’t like that feeling. 

He grunts, “I’ll visit the infirmary.” 

He turns to go, only for the foreman to correct, “Oh, it’s the other way, Your Highness. None of the families could afford the inner keep’s infirmary, so we’ve setup a makeshift care center down the way.” He points back along one of the corridors that Thorin passed. Thorin nods stiffly and goes.

He has to bite his tongue as he follows the lesser-used tunnels out into what must’ve once been a rest area. The cave is packed with beds and a few flickering candles along the walls, green-dressed staff flittering about and low, pained groans nearly drowning out the distant hammers. Almost every bed is full. Almost every body is wrapped in bandages. There’s blood soaked through, red stains along the ground, a few splashes on the walls. It reeks. Thorin can feel his cheeks heating with the thin undercurrent of _anger_ —horror at discovering this so suddenly, frustration with himself for not knowing about it sooner, disappointment in his people for allowing it in the first place. It’s not what his people deserve.

Bofur’s easy to spot, even in the dim light—Thorin picks him out in a bed near the back and instantly beelines for it. Thorin ignores the stares from other beds and the soft whispers that spring up from the caretakers. He fixates on the handsome figure propped up on two threadbare pillows, a fraying braid over each shoulder and a mass of bandages where a shirt should be. When Bofur looks up, surprise settles over his gentle features. 

Thorin comes to stop beside his bed, towering over him and quickly taking stock of everything, from the ratty blanket covering his lower half to the mud smeared across his forehead. He should’ve been cleaned properly before his wounds were treated. He should be in better bed. And someone should’ve carefully combed out his braids and lovingly done them up again. 

Dipping his head, Bofur greets, “Your Highness.” 

Thorin says, “Bofur,” and nothing else, because he was too busy with his inner turmoil to think of anything. He probably wouldn’t have known what to say anyway. ‘I find you fascinating’? ‘Please sing me another song like the one you mastered in the pub the other night’? ‘I’ll have to marry someone someday, and I think you might be what I want’? There’s nothing really appropriate. 

Bofur seems to wait for Thorin to go on, but Thorin doesn’t stray from Bofur’s bed. He doesn’t so much as glance at the workers on either side, not because he doesn’t care, but because Bofur’s difficult to look away from. When it becomes clear that Bofur’s the only one Thorin’s come for, Bofur says, “I’m honoured to have the prince visiting me.” And he manages that sort of ridiculously cheery smile that he always does, even though he works in one of the hardest places imaginable, and he’s currently wearing as many bandages as clothes. Maybe that infernal sunshine is what draws Thorin to him. 

Thorin slowly admits, “I didn’t think it would be such a strange thing to visit my workers... in all the times I’ve come to see you, I suppose I didn’t realize how truly separated we were.”

Bofur’s eyes widen around the edges. His mouth pops into a little ‘o,’ and then he mutters, “I... thought you were just inspecting the mines... not _me_.”

Thorin’s blush heats up. He can feel it. ‘Inspecting’ isn’t the right word. It makes him realize just how much he’s going to have to change—how much he’s going to have to step up and _try_ —if he’s ever going to ask for Bofur’s hand in marriage. 

In some horrible way, this might even be an opportunity—while Bofur is apparently bedridden, Thorin intends to spend some time with him, and maybe some of those hopeful smiles and songs will help to melt down his own walls. But not in this run-down little cave. 

Having decided, he announces, “You will all be moved to the royal infirmary and given proper treatment.”

Bofur’s mild surprise washes into shock, and he just sort of squeaks, “Thank you.” Then the smile splits out again. “You’re really very kind.”

Thorin’s blush is becoming a burning embarrassment. He doesn’t feel very kind; he feels suddenly and very sharply privileged, but Thorin isn’t one to accept unacceptable situations. He promises, “I’ll oversee your care personally.”

When Bofur’s cheeks rise with the same heat, and his eyes crinkle with his dazzling smile, Thorin knows he’s done for. Even though he’d meant to stay and talk, he can’t—he’s already getting sucked into Bofur’s charm, and he’s got work to do. He half-bows his leave, then hurriedly marches off to enact his change.


End file.
